


please don't make me say it (i'm sorry, i'm in love)

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Night Terrors, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22991110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: At some point Hermann’s hand had migrated to the peak of his back, and Newt focused on the feeling of each thin fingertip like an anchor on his skin. After several minutes, Hermann spoke.“I’ll be honest,” he said, voice calm in a way Newt didn’t know whether to believe or not, “this wasn’t how I expected us to meet again.”Newt managed a dry half-chuckle. “No fucking kidding.”When an accident (please, God, don't ask) sets Newt free from the Precursors without warning, there's clearly only one thing to do: find Hermann, get his (???) life together (to like, a point), and pretend none of this shit ever happened. Oh, and make sure nobodyeverfinds out about the whole possession thing. It's cool. He's cool. Newt's coping.(He's not.)
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 6
Kudos: 155





	please don't make me say it (i'm sorry, i'm in love)

**Author's Note:**

> WOOF DID THIS TAKE A HOT MINUTE. tech week and showtime for the winter musical kicked my fucking ass, but here's a concept i wanted to do since forever. mwah to charles for being my beta, and as always come find me @bae-science on tumblr and @shakesexual on twt

As the last pinpricks of winter were dragged from 2029, Newt Geiszler stood in the aisle of a grocery store in Moyulan and tried not to have a breakdown.

This was, in theory and hypotheticals and such, an easy thing to do. Most well-adjusted people didn’t pick an aisle of neatly stacked soups and baking mixes to have a moral and existential crisis about the last four years of their life. However, those people usually had a choice in the matter, and as Newt was fresh off a boat he had dubbed “The S.S. We’re Not Gonna Think About It”, he was not so lucky. The loud, buzzing mix of people buying groceries on a Thursday afternoon, and the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above, did nothing to ease his feeling of being about to go absolutely fucking insane. Newt clutched the handle of his shopping basket and swallowed hard.

This might have been jumping the gun a little.

He sucked a deep breath in and let it out through his nose, tugging his sleeves down with one hand and forcing himself to keep walking. Food. He needed food, cleaning supplies, and home-stuff for the apartment. Get in. Get out. Hide in the bathroom with the lights off for a nice, calming seven hours. Easy peasey, Geiszler.

When he reached the end of the aisle, stopping to toss a few familiar-looking cans of soup into the basket, Newt turned into the next one and appraised the selection of bread. A choice was clear here: did he want to continue eating like a sorority girl about to get married, or did he actually want to start developing a will to live again?

Newt rolled his eyes and grabbed a bag of pumpkin-flavored bagels. Even if this whole “you get to be a real boy again!” thing was only temporary, he was gonna fucking enjoy carbs.

The aisle after that was a set of fridges filled with cold drinks. He grabbed a carton of milk and, after a moment of deliberation, a carafe of hazelnut creamer from the dairy section, then walked towards the soft drinks to see if this chain still carried the kind that had kept him awake for a minimum of seventy two hours (Newt had tested) back during the War. He passed a shelf of juices, then fruit milks and then—

A flash of bright, electric blue leapt into the corner of his vision, and Newt froze. 

He felt his breathing stutter to a halt, and the basket fell from his hand as his fingers went slack. The hot, choking taste of iron and smoke crept up the back of his throat, and he felt his stomach turn in a looping spiral. Everything slid towards faded and blurry, and he could feel those four black, cold, endless walls pressing back in around him as he stood there, pushing him smaller and smaller into himself, floating away so far that he would never come back from this, it had all been a lie, and now he was falling back—

“Newton?”

A small, sharp voice said his name like it wasn’t the first time, and Newt felt a hand rest on his shoulder. The world snapped back into focus like a jump-cut, and the face in front of him was thrown into startling clarity. 

“Newton?” Hermann Gottlieb said again, shock and worry clearly warring behind his eyes. “Are you alright?”

Newt’s throat still felt tight and raw, and all he could manage was to croak out, “I fucking hate that color.”

Hermann turned to see the cooler of blue soda bottles next to them, then looked back at Newt for several long moments. His hand didn’t move. Finally, very quietly, he said, “I haven’t had blueberries in four years.”

Newt pulled in a short, broken breath, vaguely aware of the people eyeing them as they walked by. He felt his shoulders tense harder. Hermann’s hand was still there, an alien yet warm presence, like returning home after a long trip. Newt drew his elbows close to his chest and forced his posture back to normal.

“I…” he began, but the words died in his throat. Fear squeezed his chest before he realized he simply didn’t know what to say. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the floor, watching the now cracked milk carton leak towards his shoes.

There was a small sigh from above him, and Hermann moved his hand down to take Newt’s and gently pull him forward. Abandoning the fridges, he took him back through the store and out into the warm afternoon sunlight, fingers wrapped securely around the top of his hand. When they reached the street, Hermann looked left and right, then led Newt across it to a small greenspace ringed with trees.

The sun meandered through the leaves above them as the sound of cars receded just slightly, and a bird chirped somewhere in the bushes. Hermann sat down on a bench and left an obvious space for Newt to do the same. He did, balancing his forearms on his thighs and leaning forward to breathe in and out.

At some point Hermann’s hand had migrated to the peak of his back, and Newt focused on the feeling of each thin fingertip like an anchor on his skin. After several minutes, Hermann spoke.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, voice calm in a way Newt didn’t know whether to believe or not, “this wasn’t how I expected us to meet again.”

Newt managed a dry half-chuckle. “No fucking kidding.” He straightened up and, squinting at the sun in his eyes, ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, expand the interval; I didn’t know if you would ever talk to me again.”

He didn’t look at Hermann as he spoke, but Newt could feel the weight of his gaze when he pulled his hand away. “You were never typically this chatty after a panic attack.”

“People change, I guess,” he replied, the double meaning of the words bitter in his mouth. He heard the bench creak as Hermann leaned back in his seat.

“I suppose so,” he said, “if you want to philosophize about it.” He turned and gave Newt a hard look. “I assume you haven’t come to Moyulan just for the pleasure of its grocery stores.”

_Well actually_ , Newt wanted to say, _I came for you_. Instead, he shifted his hands to rub his knees. “Uh, no. I came to look for a new job, actually.”

Hermann’s eyebrows darted up in surprise. “You left Shao?”

“Essentially,” said Newt, like that explained the whole clusterfuck he had stowed below the deck of the good ole’ S.S. “Turns out working with a bunch of wannabe human rights violators and people who’re just mad they got turned down by SpaceX isn’t exactly my ideal creative environment.”

Hermann snorted. “Everyone else thought the same.” Then, his expression drew itself in. “When did you arrive? You could have—” he stopped himself, “If you needed someone to help you move in, I would have been happy to oblige.”

Newt decided not to point out that he could lift Hermann’s weight and then some, and instead shrugged. “I dunno, I guess… I didn’t know what to say. Or if you’d even pick up the phone if I called. I mean… it’s complicated,” he finished lamely.

Hermann frowned, twisting his fingers about as he appeared to consider his words. “Newton. Whatever you needed… to do, after everything.” He paused. “The War all affected us in different ways. If you needed to—to leave for a while, well. Everyone is still here, you know. You can always come home.”

The irony in that statement made Newt want to laugh hysterically until he cried, but he dug his fingernails into his palms and looked back down at the ground. “I—okay. I just didn’t know if people would think I was, I dunno. A sellout.”

“Never to your face,” Hermann said flatly, and that did make Newt laugh, genuinely. He put a hand over his mouth and rubbed his face.

“Yeah, well, that shit’s over now if I have any say in it. I’ve had it up to fucking here with tech kids on trust funds and drugs I’d never even _heard_ of. Not my crowd.”

The smallest smile flitted on and off Hermann’s face. He straightened, shuffling his feet on the grass. “You know, Newton,” he said hesitantly, “your position is still open with the PPDC. There hasn’t been another head of biology at K-Science; I’ve been doing what I can, but. Well.” He folded his hands. “It would certainly be helpful to have the foremost person in the field back with us again.”

Newt blinked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. Could things really be this easy? Was it truly possible to just jump back into his old job, his old work, his old life? He hesitated for a moment, the slight tremor remaining in his hands a reminder of the risk he was taking even just being here. He would have to be careful, he decided. Stay quiet and unnoticed, do the best that he could, and keep everyone at a safe distance just in case—well. Just in case.

He had almost destroyed the world, for fuck’s sake. The least he could do was put in some work towards making it better.

The first smile he had felt in a long, long time crept its way across his face, and the way Hermann’s own brightened made Newt’s heart give a little squeeze. “Dude,” he said earnestly, “literally _nothing_ would make me happier.”

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

Truly, honestly, he’d swear up and down; just like that, it was as if nothing had happened. Well—he wasn’t sharing a lab with Hermann anymore, which wasn’t… fantastic, y’know. But now Newt had _way_ more funding than either of them had gotten combined during the war! That was pretty great! Granted, there hadn’t been any new Kaiju samples on the market for years, and every time Newt pulled out anything from his War cold storage he almost threw up, but there were still some old notes to go through! And his friends! Tendo, freaking _Marshall_ Mori, that Raleigh guy with the, uh, the sweaters! Now if only he could look at them without guilt flooding his stomach like a broken septic tank, and everybody else on the base giving him the evil eye.

Which was the thing, essentially, about this whole “keeping people safe via isolation” thing: it was fucking lonely. Newt didn’t want a lab by himself. He didn’t want to pretend like Shao had been in the _vicinity_ of a good idea, or even his idea to begin with. The end of the War had been a clusterfuck of holing up in the lab for nights on end, which wasn’t exactly conducive to social interaction, but Newt was an extrovert at heart, and blasting music just wasn’t the same when you didn’t have someone to yell at you to turn it down. 

Everyone seemed to have realized that the War was over, and it was time to move on with life. People had gotten married while he was out, had kids, gotten piercings and dyed their hair and taken up new hobbies. And there was Newt, moving forward too and putting the bad stuff behind him—or at least trying really, really hard. Turns out four years of not-so-great stuff couldn’t be gotten over in a few weeks. Fucksticks.

The sleep deprivation probably didn’t help, to be honest. Newt had taken to working until the wee hours, then crashing at his desk for another or two of restless, jumpy sleep that always ended in choking, burning blue and a scream echoing off the walls of the lab. His apartment still sat bare, the thin layer of dust growing day by day as his fridge ran cooling for nothing. The whole task of it all, of cleaning and getting furniture and making food and building up an entire new life, one that still taunted him with how easily it could be lost, felt so daunting and huge that Newt couldn’t bring himself to even start. All he had stored away were a few blankets and dry goods, and even they went mostly untouched.

And Hermann—God, Newt really hadn’t thought this through at all. It was like they had backtracked past all those years of working together and resumed being cool, polite colleagues who sometimes nodded at each other in the halls. Newt knew it was his fault; Hermann had every right to want some distance after the asshole treatment he must have recieved for a while, but Newt still turned to shout excitedly at him after every new idea. The answering silence of his lab always made it all the more depressing, especially with only the tanks for company.

Newt was trying to keep a handle on things, he really was, but the one thing that remained stubborn and steadfast was Hermann. He had half-feared, half-hoped those feelings would bury themselves so he could not act like a lovestruck neurotic prey animal around the guy, but despite the icy distance between them, Newt couldn’t help staring at him across the mess hall any time Hermann left the lab for a meal. 

He didn’t know how much of the longing was Drift withdrawal from the physical touch that had consumed both of their priorities in the first few days afterwards, and how much was a fondness that had refused to budge since 2017 and sprouted into something more. Like a fungus. Or one of those parasites that ate ants and then came out through their eyeballs. 

The important thing here wasn’t what Newt wanted, however; what mattered was keeping Hermann safe. He didn’t know for sure if the universe had decided to stop making him its punching bag, or if They were just biding their time until enough people could get hurt. He couldn’t let Hermann be one of those. If that meant staying in his lab and doing the best he could from afar, well. Even rockstars had to make sacrifices, sometimes. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t fucked everything up past no return, anyway.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

Newt’s throat was burning.

His whole epidermis was, actually; piercing strikes of hot pain racing their way up his chest and towards his neck, pulling themselves around it until he couldn’t move and his screams faded to ragged, noiseless gasps. His fingers were useless as they gripped something—he couldn’t tell what—tight enough to make his entire hand buzz with the strain. It felt like his eyes were crawling out of his sockets as he shook back and forth, and it was horrible, and this was _wrong_ ; it was his fault but it was _wrong_ , and he didn’t want it, he never wanted it, it _hurt_ , it _hurt_ , it—

“Newton! Newton, wake up, for God’s—Newton!”

Newt flung himself bolt upright, his back hitting the back of his seat as he fumbled for the edge of the desk. Blindly, he gripped it and took in deep, shuddering breaths as the room pulled itself into focus around him. The sharp dart of pure terror faded for a moment as he realized where he was, then returned when the memory of the dream did as well. Newt’s hands flew to his arms, grabbing his sleeves and yanking them down almost over his palms. He held the edges of the cuffs tightly, struggling to get air back into his lungs.

“Newton?” came Hermann’s voice again, and Newt jumped in his seat at the sound. He let one sleeve go and put a hand to his chest, feeling the pulse of his racing heartbeat.

“Jesus,” he forced out, still looking down at the desk, “Hermann, fuck. You scared the shit out of me.”

Hermann moved his hand from where it had been shaking his shoulder, letting it hover awkwardly in the air. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I just came in to ask if you were hungry, and—and it looked as if you were having a nightmare, so I…” He lowered it. “Are—are you alright?”

Newt swallowed hard and slowly flexed his fingers, trying to stop their trembling. “I—yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

He could feel the disbelief in Hermann’s gaze. “Have you…” he began, and Newt nodded.

“Yeah. Since the end of the War. It’s fine; usually they’re…” he trailed off, unable to claim they were harmless when the lie caught in his throat. “I got used to them.”

Hermann pressed his lips together tightly, shoulders shifting slightly under his cardigan. Quietly, as if admitting to murder, he said, “I get them too. The Anteverse. And that _awful_ brain.”

Newt’s stomach swooped at the mention of it. He clenched his hand into a fist and rolled his knuckles on the desk. “Yeah,” he said tightly. “Not exactly something you can… y’know. Explain.”

He wondered if Hermann got the meaning in that, and by the pained look of remembering on his face, he probably did. “Did you ever try it?” he asked him. “Therapy?”

Hermann shook his head. “Oh, no. I never found the time.”

Newt frowned, sitting up a little. “Dude. C’mon. You were fighting in a war for like, twelve years, and then we were sure we were gonna lose, and then you Drifted with a fucking _Kaiju brain_ , and you’re telling me you never went for even _one_ session? Just to talk it out?”

Hermann snorted and gave Newt a look. “Did you?”

Well. He sort of had Newt there. Maybe a second opinion on some of his more… creative delusions might’ve headed that disaster off at the pass. He shifted embarrassedly in his seat. “Well, I—y’know. I’m not doing too bad.”

Hermann gave a pointed look at Newt’s fraying sweater and mismatched socks. “Newton. Pardon my language, but you look like you got dressed in the reception depot of a rag factory.”

_Consignment store, actually,_ Newt thought, although he kept his mouth shut for once. He’d have to see if he could find a sewing kit around the base, or—

“It’s late,” Hermann said, interrupting his thoughts, “and I know for a fact you were here last night as well.” Concern furrowed his brow, and it made Newt feel sick. “Go home and get some rest before you cause a lab accident.” He gave him a little half-smile. “We wouldn’t want our foremost expert swooning into his samples.”

Newt felt a wave of exhaustion and dread wash over him, but couldn’t think of any excuses not to leave, glancing at the door, then back at Hermann. He rubbed the side of his neck nervously and stood. “Uh, yeah, I guess. See you tomorrow, then?”

Hermann nodded, eyes flicking about the room. Newt picked up his tablet from his desk and shoved it in the worn satchel he had borrowed (stolen) from a supply closet, along with whatever pens and notebooks he could grab. He started for the door, pausing when Hermann made a small noise from behind him. Newt turned. “Hermann?”

Hermann’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he looked to be gnawing on his bottom one. “Newton,” he started, then cut himself off. He shifted his weight, thumb rubbing hard on the handle of his cane, before letting out a short huff. “I… I hope you sleep well.”

Newt was unable to keep himself from a sad little shrug. “Me too, man.” He raised the strap of the bag in a mock-toast. “Here’s hoping.”

Hermann pressed his lips together, and Newt couldn’t look away from them any longer. He shouldered his bag and hurried out the lab doors, not remembering until later that Hermann didn’t have a key to lock them behind him.

They were nightmares, that night. Of course they were nightmares.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

Newt had been sure that, after the past four years, nothing could surprise him anymore, but when Tendo plopped his tray down next to him in the mess hall, he was well and truly shocked. He had been sitting alone for the better part of his time back, and aside from more than a few dirty glances sent his way, people had left him alone.

“Well well,” said Tendo, putting an elbow on the table and leaning on it. “Welcome back, brother. How’ve you been settling in?”

Newt blinked, nearly dropping his fork into his corn. “Uh,” he said, “fine? I, uh, found all my old notes and lab reports, so I’ve been going over those, but…” he began nervously twirling the stem between his fingers, “y’know. Kinda hard to do xenobiology without the aliens.”

“What,” Tendo joked, “you haven’t tried to clone a Kaiju already?”

Newt nearly jumped out of his seat with panic. “No!” he yelped sharply, accidentally bending the plastic stem. “No, I—why would I do something like that? We don’t need more Kaiju. That’d be stupid. What would I even do with another b—sample? Drift with it again? Also an extremely stupid idea, and I would never do something like that because I’m not stupid, so no,” he finshed, voice tight, “no I absolutely have _not_ tried, and won’t. Ever.”

Tendo leaned away, and was looking at him like he had just turned purple and started sprouting leaves. “Whoa, hey, forget I asked,” he said, putting his hands up defensively. “Guess you wouldn’t, what with the shitshow you and Gottlieb went through. The stuff left in the lab giving you any trouble?”

Newt bristled at the question. “Like I said, I’m fine. Not much to work with, anyway.”

He let the awkward silence that followed crawl on for a good several seconds, turning back to pick at his corn with the bottom half of the fork. Tendo cleared his throat, shifting in his seat

“Cool, okay, so. Where in the city did you set up camp?”

Newt’s stomach twisted at the mention of his (still an asthmatic hazard) apartment. “Uh. West of the city center, a few blocks from the statue of the triplets.”

“Oh!” Tendo gave him an attempt at a friendly smile. “Have you had time to unpack everything yet?”

Newt pressed his lips together and looked away. “Not… exactly. I’ve been kinda, uh, busy.”

“Maybe me and a few of the old gang could come over and help out?” he suggested, clearly trying to salvage the conversation. “Bring some casseroles, do a little housewarming, meet Alice?”

Newt felt his stomach freeze solid and drop into his shoes, the name making it churn. Before his throat closed up, he managed to stutter out a, “Wh—what?”

“Yeah,” said Tendo, looking more than a little confused, “Alice? Your girlfriend? You mentioned her a couple of times right before you moved to Shanghai.”

“I—uh—we broke up!” Newt blurted out, scrambling for an excuse. “Didn’t want to, uh, do long distance and everything. Totally mutual. Don’t see i— _her_ anymore, but she’s doing fine. It’s cool.” 

Tendo’s forehead creased, and he gave Newt a long, half-concerned, half-disbelieving look, although about what Newt couldn’t say. “Alright. Glad it went well.” He nudged Newt’s foot with his own under the table. “Lucky in love one day, huh?”

Newt swallowed down the planet-sized lump in his throat and summoned what he knew was a horribly fake-looking grin. “Yeah. Here’s hoping.”

He assumed that would be the end of it (both people asking about him, and people talking to him in general), but Tendo’s love affair with the Shatterdome rumor mill apparently hadn’t changed. Only a few days later, Newt was stopped in the corridors by a soft tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Mako giving him a polite smile.

Or, he supposed, Marshall Mori now, but she would always be that excitable kid with the Kool-Aid dyed tips and superbly accurate Jaeger designs (in glittery gold crayon) to him. This was despite the fact that she still had a few inches on him, even more so with the heels. 

Despite the nerves that accompanied him everywhere these days, he couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey, Marshall. Congrats, by the way. Herc couldn’t’ve picked anyone better for the job.”

“Dr. Geiszler,” she began, but Newt quickly held up a hand.

“Oh, uh, still Newt. Or back to Newt, depending on…” he cut himself off quickly, “you know what, nevermind. Newt. It’s Newt. Sorry. You were saying something?”

The corner of her mouth quirked just the tiniest bit downward. “Newt, then. I was going to ask if you were finding it easy to settle back into work here?”

_I am going to feed Tendo to my venus flytrap_ , Newt thought, but instead forced his shoulders back down. “Oh, yeah, it’s good. I’m fine. Lots of stuff to catch up on, y’know.”

Mako held his gaze with that same perceptive, focused look that Stacker had perfected back in the day. Newt glanced down at his shoes. “So, uh. Like I said. We’re all good here.”

“You’re not in need of anything in your lab, then?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“And all of your reports and notes were kept in order?”

“Yep.”

Mako continued to look at him, and Newt felt her eyes burn into his forehead. Finally, she said, “Alright. Well, if you ever feel the need for some company, there’s a group of us who were with the PPDC during the War that meets every once and awhile.” Newt raised his eyes as she spoke to see her own, nothing but clearly visible concern in them. “It’s not much, but we talk. Share stories. Remember what it was like, and who isn’t with us anymore.” She smiled. “You’d be welcome anytime.”

Newt was suddenly overcome with the urge to say yes, to fuck decorum and throw his arms around her and go back, if only for just a moment, to the days when he was thirty-one and she was a rebellious, brilliant teen who loved learning how to sing the entire periodic table, and finding a covert place for Newt to give her a stick and poke. It would have seemed crazy then to yearn for a time when Kaiju were killing people by the thousands, but Newt would have given anything for another late night spent raiding the mess hall kitchens for maraschino cherries. Everything seemed much simpler, he thought.

But what would he even say to all of them? How could he describe his nightmares, so different from everyone else’s; the things he still saw out of the corner of his eye, the feeling of floating if he drifted out of himself for too long, and how easy that was to do? How could he tell them what he had done during those past four years, and everything that could have gone so horribly wrong? What were the words one used to talk about that kind of violation? The way he still didn’t feel like it was over?

So he shrugged and said, “Oh, thanks, but I wouldn’t want to butt in on you guys. Seems like you’ve already got a pretty good thing going, and I’d just get in the way.”

“Newt,” Mako tried to insist, “you’d be perfectly welcome—” but Newt took a few steps backward and gave her a double thumbs up. 

“Hey, I left some samples, uh, decanting in my lab, so I’m gonna go finish up with those, but it was super great talking to you and I hope you guys have a good time!” He flashed her a smile and turned to quickly walk in the direction of the nearest corner, burying his hands in his jean pockets and letting out a hiss of a breath. It was cool. He was so cool. A group of people asking probing questions about his life and making him think about shit that really wasn’t conducive to a productive, well, everything, was the _last_ thing he needed.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

It wasn’t the nightmares this time, but the utter exhaustion at the thought of them that kept Newt sequestered in the lab that night. He had pulled out all of his frayed, bulging files, spread them across the lab floor, and cranked his speaker up to full volume for the insomniac, mindless task of sorting through them once and for all.

Music had been a strange thing to rediscover after losing it for so long, and he now found himself with a library that consisted as much of Chopin and soundtracks to period pieces as The Strokes and Rilo Kiley. The cognitive dissonance of scene four of _Die Zauberflöte_ fading out into Married in a Gold Rush made him chuckle to himself as he tucked a folder on skin parasite digestion into place. 

“I fail to see the humor in Papageno’s eternal loneliness, but by all means, ridicule the poor man,” came Hermann’s voice from behind him. Newt startled slightly, but let out a quick breath and turned to balance on his heels.

“Is that what’s happening there? I thought that was the part where the parrot killed himself.” Hermann made a face.

“I don’t pretend to understand Motzart, nor your musical selections.” He raised an eyebrow at the speaker. “This man sounds like he’s getting all his breath through a straw.”

“Hey now, I know for a fact you have every single Sufjan Stevens song on your Spotify, so let’s mind the glass walls when we start throwing rocks, okay?”

Hermann huffed. “That’s beside the point. I could hear the racket you were making from my own lab, and seeing as it is currently two in the morning, I would ask that you at least keep it down.”

Newt decided not to mention that his volume was decibels lower than it used to be, and that Hermann worked three corridors down. He smirked. “What, you want to put in a request? Or is this just an excuse to bask in my brilliance for a little bit?”

“Hardly,” Hermann said flatly. “And I highly doubt there is anything in your library that I could so much as tolerate.”

He crossed his arms and winked. “Is that a challenge?” Newt pushed himself up from the floor and wiggled the mouse of his computer, making the screen flicker to life. He thought for a moment, then scrolled down to a playlist from years ago marked “2017” and hit play on the first song. A series of piano notes played, and as he looked over at Hermann, a woman’s voice began to sing.

“ _When you're down and troubled  
And you need a helping hand  
And nothing, nothing is going right  
Close your eyes and think of me  
And soon I will be there  
To brighten up even your darkest night_”

Realization spread over Hermann’s face, and when it lit up Newt felt a tug in his chest. “This was one of the only ones I played that you didn’t bitch about,” he said, fighting a grin. He walked over and made an exaggerated bowing gesture, holding out his hand. “Dr. Gottlieb, the atmosphere of this formaldehyde and corpse-filled lab at the ass-crack of dawn has simply overwhelmed me. Shall we shamble?”

This, to Newt’s shock and utter delight, made Hermann burst out laughing. It was still the most gorgeous sound he’d ever heard; croaky and stuttering and for once not muffled behind a hand. He took the one Newt was offering, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous this was, and this time Newt couldn’t contain his smile. He felt a surge of warmth run up his arm and, for once, managed to squash the urge to pull away.

“ _Winter, spring, summer, or fall_ ,” he sang softly, swinging their joined hands back and forth as Hermann moved closer, “ _all you have to do is call and I’ll be there, yes I will. You’ve got a friend_.” 

Hermann shook his head, his eyes crinkling as they shut. “What are you even doing up this late, Newton?”

Newt shrugged. “I dunno. Work. Isn’t that always the answer with us?”

“Well yes, but I do believe we defeated all those Kaiju you’re still dissecting. You’re allowed to go to sleep before twelve, you know.”

“Do _you_?” Newt said, raising his eyebrows up and down. “Look who’s talking, dude.”

Hermann rolled his eyes and looked away. “Well. That’s beside the point.” He held his free hand up for a moment, then, clearing his throat, set it tentatively on Newt’s shoulder. “I suppose we all have habits from then that we have difficulty breaking.”

He looked at Newt almost like he was one of those habits, eyes oddly distant and sad, and Newt felt his heart twist and break at the same time. He was filled with the impossible urge to kiss those worn lines from his brow, but instead just took his other hand and pulled it down to hold it. He squeezed it three times and Hermann smiled, looking for all the world like a drowning man with land just out of reach.

“I missed you, y’know,” he said suddenly, the words surprising them both. Hermann’s eyes widened, but Newt couldn’t stop himself. “I did. It’s so cliche, but I literally thought about you every night, and all the things I could've done differently, and what things could’ve been like if I hadn’t fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t,” Hermann said softly, hand moving to Newt’s wrist. His thumb pulsed its presence on the tendon, and Newt swallowed hard. “We ended a war, Newton. Plenty of people get a little lost after that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t—” he began, then stopped himself. “It wasn’t me.”

Hermann left out a soft huff. “Yes, that was quite obvious.”

Newt stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. “I—what?”

“Well, obviously you went a bit overboard with the “rockstar” persona, but of course that wasn’t who you _really_ are,” Hermann said with a lopsided smile. “And don’t misunderstand, I was happy for your success, and if it—well—if it _was_ what you truly wanted—” he pressed his lips together, “I would have been happy to… you know… let you be—but. Well. I could just _tell_ that it wasn’t the success story everyone said it was. That you weren’t truly _happy_ there,” he continued, the smallest note of desperation creeping into his voice. “I—I mean, the suits, and the glasses, and—and the bloody _private sector_? It… it couldn’t have been you. It couldn’t.”

Newt felt a dull ache in his chest and swallowed again, unable to tell if he was relieved or disappointed. “Yeah,” he said, voice on the brink of hollow. “Like I said: not me.”

He felt Hermann’s hand inch up his arm, the ache turning in a flash to a flutter. He lifted his gaze slightly, meeting Hermann’s eyes to find them soft. “I’m glad you’re back now,” he said gently.

Hermann’s head moved forward just an inch, and Newt found himself taking another step towards him, lips parting just slightly. His face was so open, so sincere, that he had to look away for a moment, eyes drifting to rest on the back wall of the lab. 

There was empty tank after empty tank, fluid bubbling but clear, and then one at the end containing a section of a Kaiju eyeball. The torn cornea waved about in the preserving liquid, undulating and sickly green, almost like a limp limb with a preserved life that would reach up and tap the glass. Newt felt his throat constrict, and suddenly all he could see was a tank just like that one, streaked with red, sticky scrawls and starbursts of seared glass. That same taste of iron and smoke rushed into his mouth, filling it until he nearly gagged, and he flinched back without thinking. He took in a deep breath, blowing the feeling out and opening his eyes. 

What he saw made it come rushing back in a heartbeat.

Hermann was staring at him, heartbreak smeared across his face like melted wax, mouth slightly parted as he took in Newt’s hunched posture and pale face. “Newton?” he asked in that same soft, now horribly sad voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Newt said too quickly, and Hermann’s expression darkened. He realized an instant too late what he was thinking, and pulled his hands away to hold them up. “Hermann, no—wait, I didn’t mean—you didn’t do anything, I promise, it was just—”

“My apologies, N—Dr. Geiszler,” he said stiffly, backing away and turning for the door. “It’s late. I won’t keep you up any longer.”

“Hermann, please,” Newt tried, but Hermann was closing the door behind himself before Newt could even finish his name. He trailed off pathetically, forcing his mouth closed and feeling sick to his stomach.

Shame coursed through him, hot and twisting, his skin itching and burning like an infection. He dug his fingers into the cuffs of his shirt and pulled his sleeves down hard, keeping them there as he tried to hold back the tears threatening to fall. He was not looking at the scalpel lying on the bench next to him, not looking at the sample tanks, just down at the floor as his vision swam half because of exhaustion, half because of another kind of weakness.

He was tired. He was _so tired_ ; of fighting, of being strong, of this whole mask of pretending and peaceful repentance for choices that hadn’t been his, and yet were still all his fault. The loneliness swirling about him like fog threatened suffocation, and he wiped a clenched fist over his face to scrub at his eyes. It wasn’t fair, and it was exactly what he deserved, and somehow these two things coexisted in perfect truth.

In a burst of something building in his chest, he snatched a beaker off the bench next to him and threw it to the floor, letting out a noiseless sob as the glass shattered loudly. _Look at Newt!_ he thought wildly, _look at Dr. Geiszler, losing his mind, losing control, losing everything he fucking cares about just like always. That’s not very successful! That’s not a rags to riches anyone wants to hear! That doesn’t fit their_ fucking _narrative of the crazy little goblin_ groupie _who got a handle on his life and went off to be fucking_ normal _! Who cares if he hates it? Who cares if his life is a fucking horrific nightmare? At least we can watch him spiral down the rabbit hole and feel_ justified _when we don’t notice a goddamn thing!_

All the fight went out of Newt in a rush, and he made another quiet, animalistic sound of pain as he fell roughly to his knees, bending down to pick up the scattered shards of glass that now littered the floor. He didn’t bother to find a pair of gloves, collecting them in his hands one by one; hating and needing how the sharp edges stung his fingers and drew tiny circles of red to the surface.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

Newt seemed to be developing a talent for horrible timing, arriving at the most delicate part of his dissection just as Hermann stepped hesitantly through the lab door. He looked up, freezing for just a moment before forcing his head down to peel back a section of the Kaiju artery’s protective film. “Hey,” he said as casually as he could manage, twirling the handle of the scalpel nervously between his fingers.

Hermann cleared his throat and awkwardly walked over, fingering the head of his cane as he stood in front of the bench. “Newton,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night.”

Newt bit the inside of his lip and gripped the scalpel tighter. “It’s fine, man. Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” he continued, and Newt felt the cuts underneath his gloves burn, “I was out of line, and I want you to know that it will never happen again.” He looked away. “I don’t want you to feel as if—as if you can’t be yourself around me, and that I only want—”

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newt cut him off, “it wasn’t your fault, okay? I made it weird, and you did nothing wrong—”

“I know you say that now, but you don’t need to save my feelings, Newton—”

Newt’s stomach twisted. “I’m not saving your feelings, okay, I’m literally just saying that you don’t need to apologize for something that was all _my_ fault—”

“And _you_ don’t need to take the blame for this!” Hermann said tightly. He began to twist his hands together nervously. “I—I don’t want to create the sort of environment that makes you feel as if you need space all the time—”

“Environment?” Newt said incredulously. “Hermann, what are you _talking_ about?”

“I—” he fumbled, “I know after the War we spent most of our time together, what with the Drift effect and all that, and I understand how stifling it must have been—”

“ _Stifling_?!”

“And I understand why you had to leave that—”

“What?!” Newt was holding the scalpel so tightly his fingernails dug into the latex. “Hermann, that’s not why I left!”

Hermann refused to meet his eyes. “Newton, you say that, but the last time we spoke you _told_ me—”

“I _didn’t_!” Newt shouted, and without thinking jammed the blade down into the artery. There was a thick, burbling noise, and a jet of Kaiju Blue leapt out of the incision and onto his shirt, splattering it with color. 

He stared for a moment, then screamed.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Newt made a beeline for the decontamination shower, bolting inside the padded walls and slamming the door shut.

“Newton!” Hermann called from outside, the pattern of his cane tapping a frantic, loud staccato. “Newton, are you alright?”

Newt jerked on the chain hanging above him to start the spray and slumped back against the wall, running his hands over his face as the first jets of water hit him. He wrestled his shirt off, balling it up and throwing it to the floor, before kicking it away and running his hands over his chest to check for chemical burns. The skin was clear of fresh injuries, and he let his hands drop uselessly to his sides.

“Newton!” Hermann shouted again, and Newt sighed.

“I’m fine, Hermann; nothing burned,” he said, closing his eyes and letting the water hit his face. “I’ll be out in a second.”

He left his pants on, figuring a sopping but half-naked march to the lost and found was better than a full one, and pushed his dripping hair back from his face. There was a noise from outside that Newt recognized as his text tone, and several more after that, but he ignored it in favor of letting out a long, exhausted sigh. This… might’ve been his first full shower in a while.

Finally, when the water was too cold to stand any longer, he grabbed a towel from the hook just outside the water’s reach and wrapped it around his upper body, letting his hands peek out to hold it closed. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, walking out to see Hermann staring down at his glowing phone, oddly pale. When he noticed Newt’s return, he looked up. 

The expression on his face made Newt’s chest tighten, but the words that came out of his mouth made his blood run cold.

“Newton,” he said slowly, the hand on his cane shaking, “why was there a Kaiju brain in your old apartment?”

The realization hit Newt like a brick made of ice: _he had never destroyed Alice_.

“I—Hermann—you—I can explain,” he stammered, heart racing a mile a minute. “I—listen, it's not what you—I didn’t mean to—”

“Newton,” Hermann repeated, semi-hysterically, “what in _God’s_ name happened during those four years? Are you alright? Did someone threaten you? Were—were you _kidnapped_?”

“I—yes—well, no—”

Newt flinched when Hermann took a step forward, then another. “Did—were you working for _them_?

“No!”

“Is that why you left for Shao?!” Hermann was even closer now, free hand opening and closing as he became more and more frantic. “Were they part of this as well?”

“Hermann,” Newt begged, “will you please just listen; I’m sorry, and I promise I can explain but you just need to—”

“Where are your tattoos!” he burst out suddenly, gesturing to the towel Newt was holding tightly around himself. “You never hid them before; you always had—had your sleeves rolled up, or something—but I haven’t seen them at all!” There were almost tears in his eyes. “Newton, what did you _do_?”

“ _Hermann_ —” Newt began, but it was too late; Hermann, eyes wild, surged forward and grabbed the edge of the towel, pulling on it. “Wait, stop— _don’t_!” Newt yelled, the cloth slipping through his fingertips as it fell to the floor. He stumbled back towards the shower, arms flying up to wrap around himself even as the look that spread across Hermann’s face told him the damage was done.

For a moment he only stared, eyes wide with a mix of horror and confusion. His hand flew to his mouth, and through it Hermann forced out, “ _God_. Newton… what happened?”

Newt swallowed down the sob threatening to tear itself from his throat and hugged himself tighter, knowing it was futile. The long, white, roping electrocution scars that wrapped themselves around his body and over his tattoos were as stark and pale as lightning. Hermann was a genius, but you didn’t have to be one to guess what they were from.

In the saddest, quietest voice, Newt almost choked on his words: “I’m sorry, Hermann. They were in my head.”

“Newton,” Hermann said again, like his name was the only word he could manage. “ _Newton_.”

“I didn’t want it,” he said like it meant anything, the pads of his fingers digging into his ribs. “I didn’t want Them; I didn’t want any of this. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Hermann took in a tiny breath, then stepped forward slowly and reached for Newt’s hand. He moved away, shoulders up by his ears, but Hermann gently took it and ran his fingers over the scars on one arm, tracing them with his fingertips. His breath was shaky and slow. “They did this to you?”

Newt nodded hesitantly. “I… yeah. They did.”

Hermann made a soft outline of the mangled form of Yamarashi. “How?” he asked.

And Newt pressed his lips together, took air into his lungs, and breathed. He, at last, met Hermann’s eyes. And then he told him.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

Here, in the most excruciating horrifics of a concept that can be imagined, is how to lose four years:

Spiral, circle, let your nightmares become hallucinations, become urges for something you thought you left behind under all that ink, become a way to step outside of your horrible mind for just a few moments until suddenly that mind is the only place you can go. Fear. Cry. Curse God, if you are at the point where you still believe in one. Write letters upon letters that you will never send, and burn them all the moment you close your eyes. Consume agony and loathing like it fills the hole he left inside of you. Burn yourself, figuratively. Burn yourself, literally. Swim about in your thoughts and choke on their oily smears; pass them through you and vomit them back up. Summon a mop in the little black box you call home and clean the residue. Try extremely, _extremely_ hard to kill yourself, and by association, Them. Fail miserably. Live miserably. Write more letters. Sing every song you know. Write some new ones. Wait for the world to end.

And then, in a cluster of memories, wake up. The things in your head are trying to walk in _heels_ of all things, and they are failing miserably. They topple to the ground, clumsily, like children, and your face smacks into the snotty cherry-wood floor. There is sensation again, and motion, and a hot, pulsing pain, but it is _your_ pain, and you are you and you are alive.

Unsure of quite what to do, your first instinct is to flee, but you are above all else a man of realities and what things are, so you pause. You, or at least your body, was technically working to end the world, and there is piles of evidence to support this. You need to destroy whatever They were doing, erase the remnants of Their plans, and get the hell out of dodge. If there is a life left for you to rebuild, then that is the one thing you cannot deny yourself. 

You sleep on the couch that night, unable to face the thing in your bedroom, and wrap yourself in the thin afghan They considered decorative and cry for the first time in four years.

The next day you slink into work, bubbling over with anxiety, and spend at least three hours fruitlessly trying to understand the web of Their coding. Nothing makes sense when spun through the fingers of aliens, and your brain hurts just viewing the numbers. Frustration builds, swirling with panic, and you’re at the edge of biting down on your fist to keep from screaming when an intern nervously taps you on the shoulder, holding up a cup of coffee.

You take it just as tentatively, thanking them, before realizing they’re probably more experienced in this sort of thing than you. Can they help you with this section of code real quick? you ask. It’s been giving you a headache, and you’d owe them big-time.

The intern looks shocked at even the concept of being owed by Dr. Newton Geiszler, and scrambles to scroll through the muddling lines of Their code. They frown, clearly unsure of what’s intended here, but pick through it with ease and erase the parts you specify. After they turn to you, still looking surprised you’re even talking to them, and inform you it’s clean of all “bugs”, you feel a wave of relief so colossal you nearly hug them. That would be an extremely out of character thing for you to do, however, so you just assume you can give them a raise, do so, and stiffly pat them on the shoulder.

Once they clear out, you rifle through your desk for anything incriminating, dangerous, or useful. There’s the usual items you remember: caps for now-empty kombucha shots, stray caffeine pills, sketches of Hermann with the eyes x-ed out but oddly flattering; but nothing in particular you care to keep. You pack up what research you can, shove it into your briefcase, and inform Shao you’re quitting as you hurry past her on the way out. She doesn’t call after you.

You return to your apartment, inform your landlord you’re moving out, and find the nicest moderately-priced flat in Moyulan you can on short notice. The thing in your bedroom is still there, and you still don’t have the headspace to tackle it just yet, so you shove it inside your closet and reclaim your bed, if only for the night.

The nightmares come for you with a vengeance that night, screams and streams of blue and blood pooling in the cracks in your palms. You wake already crying, fumbling for your phone and dialing his number before you can even stop to think about it. It rings for a long time, then there’s a click, and you hear a quiet voice on the other end say hello.

You hold the phone in your hand, shaking, and find you can do nothing but breathe. After a few seconds, you hang up.

The glass of the front window you lean against for the rest of the night is cool, and the sun piercing through it wakes you through salty eyes.

You get your affairs in order, call in a few of Their favors, and book it to Moyulan on a flight that doesn’t even make a dent in your bank account. The place is small and not especially clean (you wanted to touch as little of Their money as possible), and you realize you’ll have to find a store and buy cleaning supplies. And food. And new clothes. Which means talking to people.

This might be another instance of you not thinking things through.

You throw on the least flashy pair of clothes you remembered to pack, although despite the protection they provide, you can’t bring yourself to wear the sunglasses. There’s a corner market nearby that should have what you need. You suck in a breath in, then whoosh out. This is fine. You’re okay. You’re okay now.

New beginnings and all that.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

“I’m sorry,” Newt said again, feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of him, and then pushed him over. His chest felt hollow and empty; perhaps lighter, after all this truth, but not in an entirely reassuring way. “God, I’m just—Hermann, I’m so, so sorry.”

Hermann looked down, still running his finger over the scar. Newt felt his stomach churn.

“Look,” he said, “I—I know it sounds bad, and it is, but it was my fault, and the reason I didn’t tell you is because I didn’t know if the Precursors would come back. I had to be able to get out of here fast if I thought I could hurt someone, and I couldn’t live with myself if you, or anyone else, got hurt because of me. Well,” he amended bitterly, fingers curling towards a fist, “more than you already were.”

Hermann was still silent, and Newt felt desperation beginning to build. “Hermann, you can’t tell anyone, okay? I—I think they’re gone, and I’m okay, and I just need—” his jaw tightened. “Please don’t tell anyone. Please.”

Hermann looked up at last, eyes two storm clouds of emotion. “Newton. You know I can’t do that.”

Newt’s heart joined the tumult in his stomach. “Hermann—” he tried, but Hermann continued.

“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and you need medical attention, and proper care, and—and bloody trauma counseling!” His eyes were shining faintly, and Newt realized with a start that they were tears. “I—Newton, I’m horrified, and I’m _so sorry_ this happened.”

Newt pulled his arm away, pulse pounding in his wrists. “I—c’mon, it’s not that bad,” he tried, hands shaking. “I—I mean, dude, you make it sound like it was some kind of abuse.”

Hermann stared. “Newton. That’s what everyone thought it was.”

Newt’s eyes widened. “Wait, _what_?”

“Yes? You’ve been acting like someone who just escaped that this entire time, and we all assumed this… this Alice was an ex-partner you were finally able to leave,” he explained. “We— _I_ didn’t want to pry into something you clearly weren’t comfortable talking about yet, so everyone tried to reach out when we could, but you didn’t seem interested.”

Newt’s jaw was almost on the floor. “You—you didn’t hate me?”

“Of course not!” Hermann exclaimed, gesturing in a faintly familiar way. “Some people were cautious at first, of course; you never said why you really came back, and there was talk of Shao spying or some nonsense, but then Mr. Choi shared what had happened when you spoke, and everyone was worried you were on the verge of some breakdown! And no,” he added quickly, seeing Newt’s expression, “we didn’t think you were weak, we all just wanted to help you when you were so clearly hurting!”

With the same startling clarity that had arisen the first time it happened, Newt realized Hermann was right. He turned his hands over to stare at his palms and forearms, looking at the scars wrapping around them in a new light. They seemed brighter now; whiter from being hidden underneath his clothes for so long. He had been lying, yes, and everyone had seen through them, but there was one person who had been fooled the entire time: himself.

All those promises he had made had been broken the moment after. He hadn’t been “protecting” anyone; not his friends, not the world, not even himself. All he had achieved was denial of what had been eating him from the inside out, and he had almost been consumed entirely. Perhaps he wasn’t Drifting anymore, but that pain in place of reaching out was still there, and he had the band-aid-wrapped fingers to prove it. 

His fear that he wasn’t free had been ironically correct. The Precursors were long gone, but they still controlled every step, every flinch, every bitten tongue through the aftershocks. The cage had just changed its shape a little.

“I’m scared,” was all he could say, and Hermann’s desperate expression melted. “I—I’m fucking scared, man. What if they throw me in prison? What if everyone realizes I’m some kind of monster? What if—” his breath caught, “what if I don’t know any way to be other _than_ scared?”

Hermann took a step forward, expression cautious but gentle. “No one would think that. The PPDC doesn’t often employ idiots, Newton. They never used you to do anything, and anyone with half a brain will see how hard they had to force your hand.” He paused, ears going slightly red. “I… I never gave up hope on you. When—when you called me just before we saw each other again, I didn’t know whether someone was playing a cruel prank, or if it really was you, but—but it was, wasn’t it?”

“You still had my number?” Newt asked softly. Hermann nodded.

“Like I said. I still had hope. When I passed by that store you were in on the way home, I got a—I’m not quite sure what it was, but it was as if I could…” he pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. I knew exactly where you were, and exactly how frightened you felt, and there wasn’t any choice in whether or not I wanted to help you. I simply had to. So I did.”

Newt scuffed his boot on the floor, the toe of it tapping in a nervous gesture. “I—thank you. You didn’t have, like, _any_ reason to do that, but… thank you.”

“Newton,” he said closing the distance and reaching out a hand, “I had every reason. But you don’t have to hold that fear inside you anymore. You’re safe, and there are people all around you who want nothing but the best for you; all you have to do is let us help.”

Newt let the edges of his fingertips brush Hermann’s. “Can’t change the past, I guess,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying for a joke. Hermann smiled.

“No. You can’t. Thank heavens there is the rest of the future waiting for you.”

A small, slightly hysterical but genuine laugh bubbled its way out of Newt’s throat. “God,” he said, “that’s twice today you’ve been right. I’m getting nervous here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Newton; I’m always right,” Hermann said, and the gentle curve of his lips, the warmth and promise of love in his eyes, was so bright and overwhelming that Newt found himself a little unsteady on his feet. Which of course left him with no other choice, really, than to take Hermann’s hand. So he did.

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

“Yeah, so, a barn raising,” Raleigh explained, a glass of orange juice in one hand as he leaned slightly against the countertops, “is what the community or family, or whatever you have, does when somebody needs help with a really big project, and they all pitch in. Way back when, it was usually a barn or a house, and the ‘raising’ part came from when everybody got on all sides of the barn, grabbed a rope, and raised the walls at the same time so they could get secured properly. You couldn’t do it with just two or three people, so it was a group effort.” He gestured with the glass, the liquid sloshing slightly. “Which, pretty much, is what we did.”

Newt turned the cheese melting in the pot of noodles over and over on itself, mixing it in as he listened. “The only barns I’ve ever seen were, like, way out in the countryside, and most of ‘em were really dilapidated,” he said. “I know there were a lot of real ones where Hermann lived, though.”

“My childhood home had one,” Hermann answered. He finished scrubbing a fleck of half-dried paint off the counter and flexed his fingers. “We had a few animals, but mainly it was just for storing the car.”

“See, that’s the problem with Bavarians. You want to be all traditional and rustic and shit, but you’re also way too snooty to actually use the fucking antique Cinderella stove or whatever for its intended purpose.”

Hermann gave him a light jab with his elbow. “Hush and finish the macaroni. We have hungry guests.”

From the living room, Tendo entered, wiping his hands on his dust and paint-splattered pants. “I’ll second that,” he said, surveying the kitchen. “We bought y’all a stepladder, right?”

Hermann nodded. “It’s in the hall closet with the other things.”

“Hermann, this is an apartment,” Newt deadpanned, “our “hall closet” is a cubbyhole on steroids.”

“Just be glad we have one now. The entire time we were in my quarters, your knick knacks and papers and objects of dubious legality filled up nearly an entire shelf of my wardrobe.”

“Well, now we know how I got amnesty so fast.”

Hermann pointed a whisk at him threateningly. “If you're insinuating I tampered in the international legal process just to regain a small portion of organized space--”

“That is exactly what I’m insinuating, yes.”

Raleigh frowned. “Didn’t you? Usually bureaucratic procedures like that take a lot longer; double if you factor into it… whatever the hell the Precursors were doing.”

“Yeah, still not a lot of clarity on that,” Tendo added. Newt shrugged.

“Look, those guys got kicked out of their own evil lair--”

“Please do not refer to your compromised mind as that,” Hermann said with a sigh.

“Fuck you, yes I will; they basically defeated themselves by being all like, ‘We’re gonna walk in six inch red bottoms! This is a reasonable thing to attempt in Newt’s body!’ and then actually did that, and almost smashed my face in. I sometimes wonder if _they_ one-hundred percent knew what they were doing.”

“ _I_ wonder why a hivemind of aliens was so insistent on learning to walk in heels,” said Mako, entering to drop her varnish-stained paintbrush in the bucket resting in the kitchen sink. “It’s extremely uncomfortable. Also, stay away from the sets of drawers until they finish drying.”

“Will we be able to send the drop cloths back with you tonight?” Hermann asked. Raleigh nodded.

“It’s a shallow stain, so as long as you don’t get it scratched up for a bit, you should be able to put the drawers back in and let it sit on any surface in a few hours.”

“Well yeah,” Newt said, “they’re yellow pine, so the rings are more visible. The stain takes better.”

Raleigh blinked. “I didn’t know you did carpentry, Newt.”

“I don’t,” he replied, “I mean, in terms of big stuff, but I helped my dad with his projects when I was a kid. It was fun.”

“If there’s an opportunity for Newton to get his hands dirty,” Hermann said dryly, his voice brimming with undisguised fondness, “he’ll take it.”

“And yet,” he said smugly, “you love me.”

Hermann looked at him in that certain way, the one where his heart shone out through his eyes, and the weight of luck he felt over their life together was written all over his face. Newt felt his heartbeat stumble, but the feeling had grown familiar and comforting over the last few months. He glanced away for a moment, taking in the food underneath his hands, the tupperware in the fridge containing more of it, the soft curtains on the windows and soft sheets on the bed, the basket of books underneath the coffee table, the shelves in their guest room-turned-office that held even more of them, the silverware in the kitchen drawers and the cups and pans and bowls and little pots of herbs on the windowsill. The pictures upon pictures upon pictures covering their walls, and the people in them standing in their kitchen ( _their kitchen_ ) with the love and memories they all shared. He thought he might cry, but that was alright. A home is made to hold both laughter and tears, and keep them in equal measure.

Hermann reached out his hand, and Newt took it without thinking. He squeezed it, looking around as Newt had done, and smiled.

“Very,” he said, “very much so.”


End file.
